


Baby Brain Blues

by theotherdesanta



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: AU, AU taken seriously, Dave Norton is internally screaming throughout the whole thing, Dysfunctional family making the best of it, Family oriented, Mostly Swearing, Trevor being protective, Violence, not trikey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theotherdesanta/pseuds/theotherdesanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A head injury has led the retired stick up artist Michael De Santa to experience amnesia, setting his memory back 46 years. Trapped in the mind of an infant he is helpless against the dangers his career and unsavory lifestyle have thrown him into, his protector is one of the two sole witnesses to the incident and a very unlikely volunteer. Trevor *War Machine* Philips.<br/>Using connections expanding LS and beyond, Philips encourages himself to embrace fatherhood and forgiveness as choices are very limited as to those who can give the chubby, angry manchild a proper upbringing to the point his injury heals and the former Michael returns. If he ever does, that is. </p>
<p>A comedic joke between friends that grew into a heartwrenching piece of fiction harboring the meaning of friendship, family, and the occasional dead hitchhiker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boo Boo's and Ouchies.

**Author's Note:**

> Due to some personal issues I, Levi-the original creator of this piece, have made my own account to post my latest work. This, as well as some others, were written and still are, during my recovery. I apologise to those who enjoyed my work and were unable to find it on here after a mass deletion. But fret not for I will be reposting here very shortly. B.B.B is to be brought back first, and then the rest shall follow as the weeks come. or days if I get a spike of energy.  
> To those who supported me and still do I want to thank you all for giving me back the spark to continue writing. I hope to produce more fanfiction as the year goes on and have it be as life ruining as it once was. Understandably comments are restricted to registered users, but for the readers who are unable to join or are too shy to come speak, just know I don't bite and are probably way more afraid than you are. And do apologise for leaving some unable to comment.  
> and finally, for the readers wishing to know my current health status, it's a rollercoaster. Lots of ups and downs, currently, given recent events, I am on a downward spiral but intend to use this to an advantage with keeping up with Baby Brain Blues and such other fanwork. Also let it be known I do not have the edited copy of this. Ironically as a writer I'm not smart enough to save the edited version of my work because I never believe I'll need it ever again. Derp.  
> My brain is currently jotting up something you all might like, so stay turned.

Simplicity? Hah, you could say that again. Afternoon's spent in the scolding desert slumped beside a sour, moist, nostril rotting wreaking lunatic seemed like any reasonably headed person's last resort, but Michael found contentment in sipping numerous beers below the overbearingly sun-baked corrugated roof with his ass numbly sunk between the couch cushions. Fact, this was the most enjoyable way to drain time and the remainder of sweet Amanda's wearing tolerance of him. Why stop now?  
He reclined back, sputtering a drop of cool alcohol on his greying wife-beater due to the sensation of a loose nail poking out from the back of the piece of barely recognisable furniture and into the long healed yet still mildly sore injury that resonated within his left shoulder. “Mmph! The fuck?” He swallowed quick and followed it up by swiping large fingers over his shoulder blade, awkwardly contorting as to reach the offending object. He brushed the rusty nail and hissed angrily, eyes locking onto his blind-drinking partner. “Would it kill you to invest in some decent furniture?!” T's expression was thoughtful, half-lidded, dull almost while he sat there contemplating whatever the fuck it was guys like him had whirling behind their eyes. He gave a small mindless hum and continued staring at Wade's ass. Not intentionally, it just happened to be in the way of the kitchen cabinet of which his line of vision was set. “Hmm...”  
“Aye!” Michael, still holding the bottle, tapped the thing against Trevor's ear like he was knocking on a neighbours door. The serial killer swayed like a lily reed on a cool autumn morning then in the matter of an eye blink he was casting a fiery glare into the Juggalo's shorts, a deep, irritated frown stretching his mouth.  
He turned, slowly for dramatic effect. And hummed once more, the second acknowledgement came as a deep growl and what looked like steam billowing out of each nostril. “Don't gimme that! Your crappy couch just stabbed me. I want you to think about getting a new one...how bout right now??”  
“Why?!” Trevor bit the question loudly, enough to startle his employee who was previously whistling jauntily to the tune of Miley Cyrus's 'Party in the USA'.  
“Because if my ass is stayin' any longer in this rundown kennel I want somewhere to park without the fear of somethin' small and pointed shanking me!” T giggled, it was one of his famed demented bouts that easily sent anyone inhabiting Los Santos bolting for their cars. The kind you'd expect a child to possess but was far more terrifying emanating from a man in his early 40's carrying a face like a kitten smeared steamroller. “Fuck you” Mike furrowed his eyebrows, attempting to match his friends currently wavering scowl. “What if I were to buy it? You too cheap to replace your own shit now, Mr Hipster?” That did it, that smacked the tiny upward dent on the corner of Trevor's lips clean off. From Michael's perspective he seemed to grow five times his natural height until he was looking down at him, yet still seated firmly on the couch. Hot air escaped T's nose, accompanied by a few splotches of snot.  
“Jesus, you really hate being called a hipster, don't chu, T?” Michael shook his head wearily and draped the beer holding limb over his knee, using the other to gently push his buddy back three or so inches.  
“Whatever. It don't matter, I'll go find somethin' else to sit on” That was a lie. To be honest, he was just looking for a reason to get outta the tin shack, even if that meant heading directly into the skin melting heat of Sandy Shores.  
He needed to work his arm a bit, make sure everything was okay and ease the pain, something he knew Trevor would laugh at if seen doing. He'd heard it all before.  
The jibes, the insults, the claims his body was getting too old to hold all that blubbery flab related to years of comfort eating and binge drinking. Mike didn't need it. Not when he'd just escaped a condo full of judgemental assholes, one he married and two he accidentally helped create, or so his wife said.  
As he stood, Michael's tongue ran dry at the notion of going outside lacking another drink to keep himself thoroughly hydrated. “Fore I go rummaging through that weapon box of yours, i'mma grab another beer” Trevor watched silently, resembling a predator about to consume a wounded elk hobbling across a vast jungle landscape.  
“Hey Treber! You know where the dish soap is?” He turned his attention off the fat man for a mere second to answer Wade's innocent question. “Uh yeah-yeah-yeah, beneath the sink. Two rows from the bong—No! Two rows! Christ Wa--”  
Halfway through his yell there was a beer bottle flying across the floor, a huff of breath and the impending clattering thud of the top half of Michael's body being thrown onto the dinner table.  
Wade bumped himself as he tried to look at the disaster to his side as Trevor was all but diving off the couch to go aid his fallen brother who'd just come to a bloody, splinter covered thump on the carpet. He was deciding whether to laugh or berate him until he lay witness to Michael's forehead being cracked open and his body going lifeless immediately after. It was just a stupid fall, what did the fat fuck trip over? Then he realised, the first set of beer bottles surrounding their feet. Michael must've not been careful about his stepping when he ventured to the six pack just moments ago. He laid on his wounded side, barely conscious while T inspected the damage, nothing he hadn't seen before, or experienced. He just sat there on his knees, urging Michael to stop being so fucking lazy and get up. The delirious groans were broken with demanding screams for Ronald's knowledge on the very little medical training they all shared and Wade to shift everything out of the way. Michael's lip was twitching, well, perhaps quivering, Trevor wasn't sure, but he knew something wasn't right for him to not be up again by now. “Cmon Mike, quit fucking around! This ain't a game” He grew scared. “UP AND AT 'EM, PRINCESS!” Finally, with a strong shake and Trevor bellowing in his ear, Michael cracked his eyes open, though what shook Trevor deep in his belly were the glistening ovals of tears beginning to form as the older criminal bared his teeth and his mouth receded. Not into a snarl, but a cry, a loud, shrill, frightened infantile cry. “Michael?” There was a shuddered inhale.....and then....”WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”


	2. That time Chef was a nurse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wailing and incoherent, Trevor makes the split decision to whisk his blubbering friend to the dilapidated meth lab to see Chef since no doctor with a brain in their head would dare treat the notorious Michael Townley without alerting the authorities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to get all of the previously posted chapters up before the day is out. I will do so until what was meant to be the latest chapter release, and then begin a weekly update once that number has been reached.

The room held it's breath to the smack bang following Ronald's light hasty footfalls entering the trailer, the chicken wire door rushed full force, connecting with the wall and coming to a snappy halt. The grey-faced T.P.Inc employee mistakenly faltered when his gaze landed on the distraught, heaving wills being torn from the chest of a man whom once slipped his nails into the soft skin of Ron's throat and said to let him exhibit one's past glories first hand if he were to not shove a sock between those cracking lips and hightail it out of Trevor's establishment. Well, that was the nicest version of how things went down between them.   
Ron caught himself by latching onto the greasy counter top, bringing up a cough to stifle the childish squeal demanding its release through his windpipe. He righted through an inhale and slow exhale before sputtering to his boss in a voice that was bordering delighted yet did it's utmost to appear concerned for the others well-being.   
“I heard the commotion! Wh-what's what's the problem?!” He fought back a twirl and let his attention set to Trevor's lost, horrified expression as he fought to keep the struggling wrongdoer supported.   
“Turd-face went tips up over his own fucking dead trying to get a beer! Now look at 'um!” He cocked his head down swiftly and told Michael to stay awake, gently bouncing the older thief and saying he'd come back to haunt the guy if he dared to stop living. Little dramatic but that was his forte, exaggerating what was probably just a bruised skill as well as one hell of a deflated and sore ego.   
It quieted the wailing, T's soothed, comforting tone and the embrace he now had Michael securely wrapped in eased the man's dry pitched cries. Strangely, being rested next to his friends hardened peck did more than perhaps it should've to someone with a bleeding head injury. There was a sad whine, accompanied by nuzzling and the faintest, barely audible collection of hiccups. Michael was sobbing again though steadily calming down from the ear-splitting devastation he admitted just minutes ago. A chubby hand fumbled in its quest to snatch T's coffee stained flannel jacket, the deep brownish crimson capturing his gaze almost completely, the hiccups 6 second break increasing to 30 seconds, then 50, then dispersing altogether. Michael's face read entertained with a dash of skull bashing energy deprivation, he began to curl his mouth ever so slightly, the edges of his lips disappearing into those plump dimples. Nonchalantly Michael took a fist's worth of his friend's shirt and brought it to his face, mouthing the fabric and the digits holding it.   
Wade bunny hopped two inches across the floor and leaned close, the warmth of the sentence tickling Michael's ear, earning a sqreee of some sort while he spoke. “I see this before. Mah granpa hit his head on a porcupine one time and he been spittin' murley after since!”   
Ronald slid behind his room-mate and placed a firm protective hand on his shoulder, giving a nervous smile in return and asking him-”Kinda hard to understand what you mean there, Wa-”   
“He had a stroke! The needle from the porcupine cut off oxygen to the brain and he ain't been able to think right sinc-”   
“-That's nice, Wade, thanks for sharing that with us but I don't think that's the situation we got with Mr De Santa” Ron's dismissive reply came to the speed of a bolt of damn lightning. The hat wearing conspiracy theorist may have been paranoid about most things but Trevor's reaction to his best friend and lifelong stick up partner suffering a stroke, a life altering injury that could very easily strip Michael of everything from control of his mind to the control of his bowels wasn't something he ever had the courage to doubt, nor the stupidity to make himself believe. He swallowed hard, assuring T that Wade was just trying to give them an IDEA of what it could be though was loud about proving it wasn't exactly that.   
“You brainless cocks--” He knew to do this would put his mortality at risk but it was worth the shot.   
“-Ha-ha-hang on, Boss! Alrite—haha, sor-sorry, T, but you gotta think we ain't taken him to Chef just yet” Ron skipped from shoe to shoe, like a defenceless kangaroo gaging the opportunity to jump away from the predator wanting to make him it's next meal.   
“Chef!?” T barked, drool rolling down his mouth like a rabid mutt about to bite the mailman and the odd drop sprinkling Michael's forehead and left cheek.   
“Ye-Yeah! He worked in the Los Santos infirmary, 'Member, Boss?” Ron twiddled his thumbs, waiting for T's reply.   
“...Fuck, that's it! WADE! Get my keys and start up the truck! Ron, make sure he gets there” No one dared delay seeking Michael treatment for his wound, Ron just hauled Wade off the floor and dragged him hurriedly to the truck parked by the porch steps. He all but threw Wade into the driver's seat and launched his own carcass over the roof bars and into the one beside him, reaching above and pulling on the dirty cord acting as a wireless but not really wireless control opening the flap on the back.   
“Cmon, Sugar. We're takin' you to the doctor” Getting on his knees and tightening the muscles in his legs and back, using all of his strength he pushed off the ground and got them both up, Michael resting in his arms as T huffed proudly and whisked them out the door. Quick, purposeful treads down the stairs and then plopping Michael onto the bed of the truck and jumping after him, leaning against the sides and closing the flap before signalling for Wade to hit the gas.   
“WHAT AM I PAYING YOU FOR?! MOVE, YAH DINGUS!”   
“YES SIR!” Wade yelped, and slammed his foot down hard, sending the truck screeching onto the road.  
Time slowed to a crawl the moment they hit the dirt. Trevor could see the office across the sand dunes, they weren't far, but like with any accident that involved his friend hurt, even a minute wait to get help was too much to stand. He gripped Michael's hand and thought a silent prayer. Squeezing it, he let go and cupped Michael's cheek and whispered kindly “Helps on the way, brother. Think you can hang on, for me?” Michael gave a response that came out in the form of a babble, legs and arms moving wildly. The action had T widening his eyes and smiling fearfully. “Fuck”


	3. Amateur medic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chef learns that Michael has a fear of needles.

The five torturous minutes wasted crossing the uneven terrain decorating the dry retirement community landscape etched a sour, maddening grimace into Trevor's face while he sat there incapable of doing a thing to further the medical assistance his friend desperately required. Arriving to the dimly light, dilapidated gas station off building he kicked the bed open with the heel of his boot, worming over the door and letting his feet touch the ground. He spun, a little too violently he wrapped those broken hands around Michael's ankles and got him in a clutch, hurrying passed the vehicle in a beeline to the front door of the office. He went in back first, eyes frantic to the sound of Mike's gurgled laughter, Christ he must've hit his skull hard on that table, probably shook his brain loose from it's perch beside his massive, judgementally ironic capitalist movie loving angel faced ego. T ventured to the stock room doubling as their private operating room, reserved for his crew and those willing to pay for a somewhat higher price for the not so legal replacement of a lost kidney. Usual clients were small time dealers, addicts such as the likes of Trevor himself, Ashley, god rest her soul, any stragglers from the Lost Motorcycle Club who'd rather get their fix than ride or die. Hell, even a number of the guys from Pitchers had faith in Chef's surgical talent, though 80% of them never woke up from the anaesthetic, not that it was tainted but Trevor found the money from their organs worth the sacrifice. An extra dose was all it took to keep their eyes closed permanently. Sure, he felt bad, but what about those kids in Africa! WHAT ABOUT THEM??   
No explanation left Trevor's mouth as he rested Michael on the cheap rickety stretcher scrapped from an ambulance they'd forced off the road the night Chef became a vital member of the team, hollering like hyena's to it flipping over and creating a multi-car pile-up on the freeway. 9 dead. 4 critically injured and 7 needing to be cut out of their seats. Not his best but it pretty darn good all the same.   
“Ron filled me in on the details” Chef said through his teeth, biting the plastic tip of a syringe duct taped to a small capsule of clear liquid. And the older gentlemen had done just that on the drive to the office, stuttering his words trying to get them out inhumanly fast because god knew they couldn't afford a single second of Michael's life on discussing what to do concerning the injury. He put it into simple words and then put the rest on Chef to decipher which the guy did expertly, having mastered the art of gibberish. You had to, working under a boss like Trevor, time was vital, people were at risk, wounds were easily infected in Sandy Shores from the desert sands and pollution from the Cluckin' Bell factory. His motto was an adaption of the rap song “Live fast die young, bad girls do it well”. Switched to “Work fast, live long, Trevor's boy's do it well” Cliche but hey, it got him pumped. Chef injected the solution into the transparent bag hanging above them, dangling on a coat hook beside the bed, and dutifully went about tapping Michael's right arm, checking for a vein to insert the IV into. Being naturally prone to them exposing themselves atop his skin it took Chef all of a second to uncover a healthy vein and begin the--“WAAAAAA!!!!!” The point of the surgical needle never actually touched him the second Michael's chest heaved and he broke into what Chef deemed an ear-drum shattering scream. It was something you'd experience once or twice in a graphic horror masterpiece, grown men racking their airways during some gore-fest of human fluid spraying over the fucking place and rust dotted saw blades, living beings hung on meat hooks watching their friends be plucked one by one until only they remained for the butchering, being fed entrails and faeces, having their assholes sewn shut or to another person's mouth....something horribly close to that. Suffering obvious distress, Chef stepped back to give the man space, failing to quell the sobbing and gathering a sharp “Whad-da-yah doing?!” from his employer.“T, I could'a put this thing in his arm. Missed the vein completely! He's gotta keep still”   
“Does he look like he's in a condition to keep fucking still?! Look at him!” Trevor's raised voice wasn't helping anybody, all it did was leave a sour taste on Chef's tongue and had him less than willing to solve the problem, whatever it was. He groaned and leaned over the bars of the stretcher stopping Michael tipping out, he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, saying calmly “Michael, Michael, can you hear me?” The sobbing had dialled down to wheezing, upset, muffled wheezing, his eyes flicked to the sound of his name, confirming it registered with him.   
“Michael, do you know where you are?” That was all he managed to get, the recognition, then it dissolved again, Michael slinking down under the white sheet Trevor placed over him to brush away the chill of the stock room. Chef removed his glasses, sighing. “Michael, where are you? Can you tell me?” Remembering his days on the ward, Chef pulled out of his apron a small light and shun it in the others eyes, Mike squealed and smacked the offending torch away, trashing in a lame defence tactic. “Shit” Chef spat, coughing to stop his temper flaring “Asshole”   
Bending down to scoop up the torch, he stuffed it away and tried another method.   
“Michael, squeeze my hand. I need to check your reflex. Can you do that” He gave his right hand to the man and waited, curiously Michael pulled a face and inspected the appendage before him. However instead of taking it and using his strength to crush Chef's fingers, he brought it to his mouth and started sucking. Chef cringed and gently slipped free of Michael's slimy grasp. “Was he like this before the fall?”   
Trevor's voice cracked as he answered: “C-course fuckin' not! If he was, why the fuck would I bring him here?!”   
“Just a question, boss” Chef gestured he lower his tone. “No reason to-” Trevor growled, eyes blazing holes into Chef's core. “-Ho-kay, never mind. Look...” He took a deep breath to prep for the outcome of his boss's reaction to the news about to follow. “I am going to monitor him overnight, I need to get him attached to a heart monitor and the IV before I can make a real diagnoses, clearly, he's experiencing mental trauma so I'll have to call my friend in LS to come check him over. To be honest...from the way he's acting...Michael could very well have a concussion”   
Trevor's heart sank into the pit of his stomach, burning coldly. “Or worse”   
“Worse? What's worse than th—Stroke?” Fuck, Wade could've been on the ball the whole time.   
“If not....depending on how he is through the hours...we might...wanna thinka bout getting him to a real hospital”


	4. Pearls before Swine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, they have a doctor on the scene. Doctor Cullswine, the next best thing to Hannibal Lector, sets to work figuring out just what is wrong with Michael.

“You're compromising his treatment being here! Please clear off!” Those were Cullswine's words seconds into closing the door in Trevor's face. Stupid British cunt, who did he think he was kicking T out like that? He was a corrupt neurosurgeon hopping one country to the next escaping murder charges after euthanising ten mentally disabled teenagers and his dementia sufferer of a mother in law. Cull swine swore he was doing the children, his mother and the world a favour. They were all in great deals of pain and he held the key to their release. Their salvation. The end to their torment.   
He wept for them and help memorials in their names in the medical centre chapel so they weren't forgotten. Their deaths were not in vain and wherever the souls had wound up, he knew they were grateful to him. Least that's what the voices told him as he laid down at night to sleep off the parallels of another day.   
Trevor did not like nor trust nor could bring himself to trust a man fixated with the human brain, who enjoyed fondling the epicentre of a person's very being the same as Trevor did a blunt on a lazy weekend. No. He could not, would not. Ever. Trust a man like that. Especially not since he'd received word the neurosurgeon was notorious for blackmail and using important information to get what he wanted. If he knew just how much Michael meant to him....good lord, Trevor didn't believe in mind control but what possibly stopped Cullswine popping his brain in a jar and holding it for random? Or render Michael in suspended animation for eternity? Trevor didn't believe in the same nonsense Ronald did....of course, that didn't withhold him contemplating the thought.   
Contemplate his poor meth-addled self into a deeply unbalanced disposition, more so than the usual.   
Afternoon had come and gone, transformed into night, and fluttered to dawn in a matter of hours, the sun never truly went down in Sandy Shores, even if it went down you saw the searing red glow over the mountains and whatever beamed off the interstate. He forced himself into something resembling sleep, close but not entirely. He didn't dream, but Trevor felt his body grow limp and heavy on occasion, enough to have him drifting back and forth between reality. His eyes were open a good amount, blindly staring on while around him things continued. Wade got back to the dishes, Ronald grabbed a spear and stabbed the trash lying on the floor, he made sure to grab every lingering beer bottle and dispose of it to save someone else the trouble of falling on their ass, or their head.   
Day came and Trevor sat there clutching his cell waiting for the call to confirm or deny the thing he had been worried shitless about. Whether or not Michael had to go to LS for treatment. God, Amanda would kill them both, Michael for getting himself hurt and Trevor for being involved. Nothing out of the ordinary but the wife's demeanour had become much more fierce over the course of ten years, she'd gotten confident, self-relent, defence lessons and her own pistol, he noted to not test her unless he KNEW the gun was out of her reach. He couldn't give the woman a reason to shoot him, not that she needed one, his face was good enough but talking as a member of the Townley clan for two decades....Amanda wouldn't think before popping him if he dared try anything. Not that he had anything planned but you know, bitches be crazy. Especially money grabbing bitches named Amanda.   
Honestly, Trevor was fearful of returning his friend to the city broken and not coherent, not just because of his family but because Michael wasn't able to look after himself. If Cheng junior decided to up and take revenge for Wei, Mikey was boned, guy only managed to defeat Merryweather because damn Jimmy smashed a bong into the face of the last soldier, if not for him...Mike might not have been there.  
T's thumb ghosted over the answer button, he'd skimmed through all the functions and messages and emails and god damn stock market shit Lester had sent them over the months, he frowned at the lack of confirmation on Michael's health, raising a tired to eye to the dark spectacled man glaring at him from a distance, he was certain he heard screaming in the night, the screams of a lonely, terrified prick wanting his best friend there to protect him from the sharp equipment and scary tools they were going to diagnose him with, fucking hell, why did Trevor feel the urge to destroy his own psyche instead of focus on—--'Ring ring' At fucking last the cell buzzed to life in his grip and T's thumb was like lightening, swiping the button to answer the call and throwing the receiver at his ear.   
“Gimme the results, Doc” Trevor straightened his back and hardened his gaze over the scenery.   
“Your friend is a mystery, Mr Philips. We cannot find anything wrong with him, not a thing. Other than the head wound”  
The knot that created a tight place in T's chest untied and disintegrated immediately, freeing him of that which plagued him all through the night.   
“So he's good? Fat fuck can---” His smirk of shit eating delight fell to the sudden burst of ecstatic childlike laughter from wherever it was behind Cullswine.   
“Be returned? Well, as we can find no source to give treatment I would say that is all we can do”   
“He's still actin' like that and you say you can't--”  
“It is most likely your friend has retrograde Amnesia, Mr Philips. Bashing his head upon the table resulted in psychological trauma that rendered him in a state of infancy due to his lack of memory. He cannot remember who he is, nor how old he is, nor anything taught to him so what else is there to do but regress one's mind into that of a child?”   
Denial, one big ass wave of unrelenting, powerful, head-turning denial paved a river through him as Trevor tried to make sense of this. He lifted his free hand and patted it against the side of his head, gritting his teeth out of confusion regarding the situation. “So....You're telling me....My snake of a friend is....mentally impaired?” He paused between each sentence. Closing one eye and leaning to the side like he was trying to pat something out of his ear hole.   
“Temporarily. These things can last a few minutes to....several years, give or take. Best if you come collect him as he does seem to be quite unruly”   
Several....fucking....years.....”I'll be right there” He said numbly and hung up. “....Oh Mikey....”


	5. This is why we need seat covers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor learns the hard way about not owning seat covers

Lugging a two hundred pound corpse, that single notion Trevor dubbed comparable to his current situation. Sadly the dead weight bearing painful muscle tensing came from having to coerce a grown, living simpleton into the passenger side of the Bodhi. Chef's 'assumption' they could urge the disabled man onto his feet with great encouragement fell flat on everyone's face when his toes hit the chilled stockroom floor and Michael's knee buckled instantaneously under the weight.   
Chef, Ronald and Trevor had all been there to catch him and get Mike back on the stretcher, which they found themselves with no other options than to wheel out and prop against the truck. Because of the folding mechanism, Ron suggested they slide him right onto the bed, but none of the group wanted nor were able to sit beside Michael to hold him in place during the short journey to the trailer. Getting over the initial shock and slurping nearly four litres of water through the night, Michael had become very boisterous, energetic even, it was a big surprise to them as he was always the one to complain of losing shape and that spring in his step. Trevor forced a hiss as he tossed the seatbelt across Michael's belly and plugged it into the small square holster next to the man's thigh. It was cold, thank god, not heat scolded by the harsh desert sun.   
“All tucked in?” He drawled the question, feeling a burdening sense of unease spread along his neck as Michael's attention glued onto the bright silver buckle holding the grey, dust covered suit pants to his waist. “Eyes up here, you fuckin' magpie” T climbed the roll cage and fell into the driver's seat, turning the key and reversing onto the sandy road. Ron's body, out of nowhere, came hurtling over the rim of the bed, colliding with Trevor's toolbox and a bundle of filthy rags he kept around the buff the truck. The collection of scrap cloth probably saved the paranoid addict a fractured nose as he hit the box forehead first, Ron flipped sides and edged himself onto his ass, leaning on the arm that hadn't been in contact with the bed when he landed the jump. “Could'a waited, boss” Ronald said.   
“Just be glad I didn't back over you! Now shut up, we gotta take this fat lump home before he drools on the leather”   
T had his palm against the wheel the entire time, rolling it impulsively to meet the near impossible turns and have the ride be smooth so it didn't disturb Michael who was pushing every button he could see: The radio abandoning it's present death metal, country rock and blurring through 90's iconic pop music. Sometimes it'd fall on Madonna or Brtiney Spears, or something like Destiny's Child. Just because he loathed most pop culture didn't mean Trevor couldn't dance to Beyonce once in a blue moon. “Stop that!” The meth head snapped, regretting his reaction at the sight of Michael's stricken wet puppy expression. He was pressed into the door, tears brimming the corners of the precious baby blues lodged in those naturally glaring eye sockets and his mouth was quivering again, nothing unexpected but it had been Chef's responsibility before, not Trevor. “Fuck! I'm sorry, okay! Don-Don't cry!” Saying it actually brought the onslaught pouring out of Michael's face, lids squinted and cheeks pushed to their limit as he screamed each devastating cry. The balled fists were a nice touch. “Trevor! You might wanna do something about this” Ron whispered, tilting his head to the left where a curtain moved unnaturally in the window of Mrs Duper and her nine grandchildren. “Fast”   
Leaving his seat and marching around the hood, T came to an abrupt stop and wrenched open the passenger door, leaning over to unbuckle Mike's seatbelt. His nose caught a whiff something stale, but then also hot, fresh as if you'd put out a bag of mixed vegetables and forgotten about them for six weeks, like it'd been left to dry and come back again, layering the stench. He looked down, the sensation of a jagged blade invaded the space between his eyes as Trevor realised Michael had pissed himself, twice, and he wasn't sure what angered him most: The thought of it happening last night and Chef not bothering to do anything or the fact his seat was now absorbing the moisture and be ruined in a matter of hours.   
Trevor dubbed both a reasonable explanation, but that didn't let the thought of what he was about to have to do, escape him. “Ahhh...” He inhaled “Fuck” Michael's legs bent, he tried to curl up in his seat, scared of what Trevor might do to him, even with the mind of an infant he knew his best friend wasn't a force to be reckoned.   
“Ron” Trevor sounded like he was going to be the one to cry next, a weak, pitched exhale and little sway told the conspiracy theorist they needed to do something, immediately. “Call Wade and....tell 'im to go to Costco. Then...set fire to the truck, can you do that?” Ron nodded, but threw in that he'd run to his place and get some leather soap for the seat, believe it or not, Ron had children, two, from a previous relationship he didn't feel comfortable sharing information about. They never married, ironically that was the woman's choice, she wanted to remain single for the alien race, or more, for their king. Can't become queen if you're married to a dud like old Ronny!   
His son's rarely spoke to him after he went travelling and stumbled upon a federally labelled satellite dish, confusing it for something otherworldly since it had a bunch of shit graphetti sprayed on the side. What Ron took for an alien language was actually a type of Nubian slang for Bitch muncher. No idea how he managed that feat but nobody cared enough to ask. Like a lot of sane society members, the boys didn't want to be involved in their father's crazed rantings or his fear mongering radio show, they stayed away and only sent birthday and Christmas cards. Last time they spoke...Kevin was gonna be a marine, Nolan....well, all the letter mentioned was putting money to a small bakery in Los Santos and things being okay for the moment. Nothing else since then. To be truthful neither had forgiven him for disappearing: Five years of silence and then a dozen manically scribbled letters detailing nonsense of being abducted and this great guy plucking him out of the dunes and whisking him away to safety where he made Ron CEO of a big successful company.   
Which they later heard from a reliable source (Lester) that it was a meth lab in the scolding hell lands of Sandy Shores and Ron had been arrested a bunch of times for wandering naked through the community. Once they saw the mug shot of T...they knew they'd lost their father to a very sinister man, and weren't emotionally capable, to go get him. Nor face Trevor Philips lacking the proper authority. The memories of a decent family life still haunted dear Ronald to that day, the sight of piss covered seats was a small reminder of his kids in their youth, and how much he wanted to see them grow up again, properly involved. Yet, sad as it was to accept, he knew he'd never get that chance again.


	6. Burn the truck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor has a revelation during the clean up followings Michael's little accident.

Instinct consumed the whelming loss for his truck seat, the physically abused metal door to the place was kicked open a second time in the past 48 hours and the crystal dealer grunted triumphantly, the effort of having to carry a ton's worth of Michael De Baby Prick causing his skin to vibrate as his arms and knees threatened to give way. The shower seemed a distant, roach infested mirage in the tin wasteland that was Philips's trailer. He grunted, wanting to oh so desperately wash the smell of day old white rich asshole urine off his aching hands. Not that he minded the stuff, however, recent events had him clamouring over the thought of a cool shower and eight-no-twelve soap bars, all going into the poor fuckers eye sockets and up to his brain if he was clever enough with shaping an accurate point that would pierce the fleshy nostril barrier.   
“Cmon, you weak bladdered shit” Trevor rasped, approaching the door frame and having to angle himself and the fat man through before lowering him onto the shower base. No curtain stood between them, nothing separated the immediate gush of questionably coloured water that'd transform the bathroom floor into a miniature pool for surrounding bug life. He let out a belittling snarl and marched to his room, prying a crust bed sheet up off the mattress and hurrying back, speedily ripping holes for the hooks to attach to and then leaning across to twist the focset. There was a bewildered squeal when the Luke warm spray hit Michael's forearms, he wriggled and crunched his face hoping that might stop any getting water on it.   
Coldly, T glared and closed the makeshift curtain, tossing him a bar of soap Michael was inevitably going to try and eat.   
Disgusted, he abandoned the room and walked to the sink, pouring a large amount of puppy paw cleaner over his hands and running them roughly under the scolding tap. The burning sensation was good, gave Trevor a small dose of transparent reality that would leave the second his skin cooled down.   
This wasn't a germ thing, it was an (I need to suffer else the world might fade away) thing, it ate at him to the point Trevor stuck needles in his toes just to know he had shoes on or set fire to his pants because the cold reminded him too much of Yankton. To feel cold, meant reliving his days in the north. That frozen hell hole he once loved so--  
A distressed whine ruptured Trevor's lapse of self-deprecation and in an instant, he was crossing the living room and shoving his upper torso passed the door frame, he leered daggers at the still closed curtain and the faint shadow of the man sat behind it. T yanked the fabric away and had to catch himself as his body dared to sway in reaction to the soaked, heart-wrenched, swollen lipped man-child sniffling sadly under the still rushing shower head.   
“What? You susceptible to water now?! Stop giving me the mistreated animal crap and---” Was it the cliché silver screen look Michael had? Was it the gut-churning realisation he'd been doing exactly what Trevor feared Cullswine and Chef of earlier that day? Or was it the dependent, helplessness his friend's demeanour carried?   
Maybe it was a culmination of everything, but it didn't excuse Trevor's behaviour, nor his general cruelty or inability to give five shits. “Fuck” Trevor turned away and slapped a hand over his eyes, teeth ground finely into his jaw bone. “Fuck-Mi-Mike I'm sorry” He squatted, getting as low as he could and then tugging away the sheet. Trevor reached out, hating himself all the more when Michael shrunk away, afraid of the hand trying to make non-threatening contact. He sobbed, visibly terrified and probably wanting a parental figure to come take him away. “Shuu, shuu shuu shuu shuussshh” T weaved his scarred fingers into Michael's sopping hairline, pressing his lips into a thin line while he thought about how to get a handle on things. “So-kay, brother. Uncle T's gonna take care of yah, hear me. You ain't gonna be alone in this” The sincerity and calm in his tone got Michael to unravel himself a little, enough to get the other hand under his arm and begin tugging at the wife-beater he'd been wearing for three days. “First things first...We gotta get you outta these and into something dry” Similar to how Michael always was, this new De Santa was unwilling to take off his clothes. Whether it was for a bath, for a stripper or just to relieve some of the uncomfortable LS heat, he wasn't about showing off the chub to the public. “Eh, you wanna smell like a toilet for the foreseeable future, be my fucking guest but do not sit there and cry like somebody ain't tried to help you make things more comfortable, Mikey” Trevor dared to imagine that was how Michael would come back, one long ass monologue of an insult and he'd lost the diaper wetting facade and be beating T's ass into the ground, quoting stupid 1940's gangster noirs or Robert De Niro movies he'd watched copious times in boyhood. Yeah, that'd be something to tell the grand-kids some day. “Hands in the air, Babytits” Trevor's mind drifted to an old cop and robber show they'd watched together the night Amanda went back to work after having Tracey. The kid was asleep so they didn't really need to worry all that much and there was nothing decent on crappy 1990's cable so Michael went over and slot a video tape into the VCR. They'd stayed awake the entire night, balancing bottles and beer and cheap greasy microwave pizza, it was Trevor's vision to heaven. Just him, his buddy, a warm duvet and a stack of films only Michael was actually gonna pay attention to. Those days were gone now, Trevor needed to get his head out the fucking clouds and make new memories, one's meant for lasting a good fucking millennium. Even if they were with another Michael. One different from Townley, hell even different from De Santa. Their appearance was the same and right now that's all he needed to stay constant. Least, that's what he told himself he needed.   
“Christ, how did you get these on in the fucking first place, you fatass” Trevor wound up propping the base of his heel on the wall next to Michael's head and the other against the raised lip of the shower tiles, now clutching the legs of his friends suit pants with both hands he pulled back and prayed his friend wouldn't come with them when he did so.   
Another shriek, this time from shock, and Michael was lying halfway out of the shower naked as the day he was born. Trevor was fast to bundle him back under the warm water and summon Ronald for some towels. Grabbing a soap bar and flipping out his army knife T whittled a small duck for Michael to amuse himself with. It gave Trevor the space to catch his breath and then get onto washing Michael properly. Yeah, it wasn't the job he wanted, nor something he ever saw himself doing in their old-ER age, but If it was something he had to do, you bet your money he'd do it, especially for his running buddy and kinda but not really but in a way, confident. “I swear if you shit in my shower, you're eating that turd”


	7. Dad Lesson's Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Wade head to Costco, leaving Trevor alone to play doting dad.   
> It doesn't go so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably one of the first chapters that cheered me up. Trevor's bumbling dadness is too cute.

“The fuck you mean, no clothes!? I ordered you to-” The ordeal of multitasking had Trevor's temperament frayed and quickly disintegrating as Wade stuttered a verbal defence, having returned successfully with a bulk purchase of Adult diapers but was not informed that Michael also required a fresh assortment of clean clothes because his employer failed to pick up the phone and call him while he darted through the warehouse based store like a headless chicken.   
“YAH TOLD ME TO GET DIAPERS, T! I SWEARS, YOU DIDN'T FER SHIRTS OR NOTHIN'” The second task in his line of chores had no doubt acted the straw that broke the amphetamine addicted camels back as Michael did put up a good fight to evade wearing the sickly pastel green undergarment ten minutes ago following Wade's arrival. Delivering kidney rupturing belts of the foot and overly hard slaps using the top of his hands, he was a floppy fucking boxing champ if ever Trevor saw one, better suited to fighting now Michael's brain wasn't part of the equation. “Be easy on 'im, boss” Ronald stretched his arms wide and took priority of covering his close to fallen brother, urging Trevor to see reason behind his anger and promise to go back out and occupy the needed items. The fire illuminating their general's eyes dwindled, his focus slithering onto the gurgling conman sitting atop his mouldy bedspread watching Barney and Friends on the cracked screen television, one fist placed unconsciously into the mouth while shrouded in the last dusty yet cleanest sheet he owned. “You'll leave right now” Trevor's neutral tone got them sharing a relieved sigh, immediately retracting it as he whipped his back to face them again. “I want you clowns to get my poor friend here some pants, nice shirts, something with animal print-hell, get him a whole new fuckin' wardrobe, understand me. I want everything!” T waved his hand in a circular motion, gesturing wildly. Once more he was drawn to the door-less bedroom as a loud guttural rumble echoed from the belly of the person inside, a look of confusion and then hunger induced distress broke his concentration well as had Ron shaking his partner and muttering something incoherent before scattering like startled mice. “EY! What am I supposed to feed this little asshole?! We ain't got no--” Trevor swung around the porch in time to catch Ron and Wade jumping into the truck and flipping the engine, Ron shouted in reply and said “--Get Mike to suck somethin' through a straw! He should do fine until we get back! We'll add food supplies to our list, okay, boss?” He waved, begging Wade to floor it as he held on tight to the roof bars. The truck whirled in a sea of dust and disappeared beyond the dunes, Trevor pursed his lips and scowled in annoyance, fucking cowards.   
He twirled and went to see what the commotion was about since Michael, for the third time that day was balling his eyes out and putting his vocal cords in serious jeopardy. T made a quick stop at the fridge, praying for a drop of unsoured milk or carbonated lemon water to offer his running buddy until proper liquids were an option. He rinsed out a glass and stuck a straw over the rim, pouring the cold fizzy water into the container and then tossing the empty bottle over his shoulder where it flew into the small plastic bin that which had recently been emptied of used tissue paper and used beyond the point of recognition knee fetish magazines. “Thirsty, Sugar?” Trevor said it in a way even capable of surprising himself, it was like a completely different guy had spoken to Michael and handed him the transparent glass to drink from. Marvelling at his friends tight clutch, Trevor pointed the bendy part of the straw to his mouth and sat down beside him as he convinced Mike to take a sip. “Water comes outta this part and goes in here” He playfully jabbed a finger into the others stomach, feeling a smile dare to cross his face as a warm giggle shook Michael's form and got his mind set on the glass in his hands. Of course Trevor had to support the bottom to keep it from tipping and spilling onto Michael's lap and seeping into the bed, however he didn't much care about that right then, he was too busy watching his best friend hold his breath with each tentative suck of the straw, swallowing like he was drinking a foreign liquid not found on this earth. Michael made countless faces trying to get sense of the weird bitter fizzy flavourless taste in his mouth, but failed and glared at what he was holding. Then came the hiccups that brought with them a good number of teaspoons of the water, Michael clearly didn't swallow them properly and choked up most of the glass Trevor had given him. Acting fast he took the glass away, putting it on the bedside table and then getting Michael to lean forward over his shoulder where he began patting viciously on his back, differing between slaps and rubs to get what was left in the fat man's lungs out and onto the soiled mattress. Big mistake using that fucking straw, Ron was gonna pay for his advice if Trevor had anything to say about it.   
“Better out than in, Mikey” He comforted, listening to his tearful hiccups during each individual retch. Michael coughed his throat raw until the muscles stopped contracting and he could breathe evenly, wheezing and laying his head on Trevor's shoulder while he let the mild air soothe his windpipe. “You doin' alrite there, Mike?” No response, no sound imitating a reply. It had Trevor's internal alarm going off. He was lifting Michael up to check if he was still breathing when he stopped, hearing a tired snore tickle the hairs surrounding his sparrow tattoo. A hand on his back captured the gentle rise and fall as Michael took deep, lengthy inhales indicating he was sleeping. The unbearable tense of red between his brows deflated and a few moments later went away, letting him acclimatise to having the weight of a snoozing man child within his embrace. Trevor carefully placed his head on Michael's and wound his arms tighter around him, getting a soft coo and the itchy tufts of the others buzz cut nuzzled into the nape of his neck. He didn't realise any time had passed when Wade fell through the metal door, shouting of all the stores they'd visited to find the sort of clothes Trevor desired and makes of baby bottle as they all sported different shapes and liquid amount sizes for parents to choose from. Ron was smart and picked the simple stuff, anything else they were happy to go fetch later in the week soon as Trevor knew what it was he actually needed to keep Michael healthy and well nurtured to the point his memory returned. God only knew when that'd be. “He didn't do so well with the straw, huh?” Ron asked while he sprayed some fabric cleaner over the bed, wiping a damn cloth into it to work it in. Trevor pouted, chin in hand. “Only got a quarter into him” Nonchalantly Ron added “Did you have him drink slow? Babies can only take so much at one time, boss” “You're talking about a guy who drinks like a fucking fish?!” T bit. “okay, okay, easy boss” Ron said. “No need to take someone's head off”


	8. Don't mess with Papa Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, seriously, don't mess with Papa Bear.

The following evening had been anything but kind to the three junkies as yet another thing somehow evaded the list of crucial items to improve their circumstances: A crib. A sleeping place for Michael that would've hindered his ability to roll during the night. Luckily with some improvisation, they constructed a padded barrier and pegged it to the headboard of the trailers one functioning bed. Stabbing a crowbar through the bottom left corner of the mattress and tying it around the handle, then nailing the last piece across the spot where a footboard should've been and into the wall. Ronald proclaimed the oversized child lacked the intelligence to consider escape options, though added: leaving a big enough gap for a toddler to slip through might've encouraged him to believe he was small enough to do so and to keep such a thought in mind, the others did and shared a triumphant round of cold beer after lulling him with a drunk rendition of “Ba Ba Black Man” and “Little Bo Peeping Tom”. Michael was sound asleep by 8:30 and woke only twice to receive a bottle of luke warm baby formula and another fresh, gaudily decorated diaper, both times assisted by Trevor's right-hand men who sat beside him and dangled plastic multicoloured teething keys in front of him to refrain any further physical damage from his boxing champ heel kicks and roaring backhands. Trevor wasted no effort in steadily replacing the absorbent garment and avoiding a blow to his rib cage when the elated manchild's leg flew into the air, narrowly missing his friend's torso by mere inches. No longer a urine soaked mess he was tucked securely back underneath the parrot splattered blankets and the men abandoned the room to let him rest, the conspiracy theorist tiptoeing himself out of the trailer but promising to return after a little kip, the juggalo stealthily crawling in the same direction hoping to be given the man's floor as a respectable sleeping area. Alone and worn from the earlier fiasco, Trevor slumped comfortably over the ratty couch and propped his head on a few pillows they deemed unsuitable to use for a prototype barrier, discarding them for later use or stuffing of some sort, locking his tired stare on the doorless bedroom before inevitably losing to the sinking feeling pulling him down into a dreamless slumber. The sun was still low in the sky when he emerged from the depths and let out a hearty groan, stretching his sore arms above his head and waiting for the telltale pop of aligning joints. There was a sharp crack and suddenly Trevor's back felt a good deal better, but the moment was short-lived as he peered into the room opposite and saw the back of his CEO's red jacket, scowling wearily to what he could make out to be the man frantically trying to hush a distressed infant, pettily begging Michael to keep it down and not wake their boss. Some words were used that he disapproved of and got Trevor to his feet in an instant, marching to the bedroom where he forcefully shoved Ronald into the wall and took him by the throat, leaning close to assert his dominance. “What the fuck did I hear you say to him?!” He pointed to the tearful creature biting on a set of red, yellow and orange rectangles, cooeing sadly like someone had given him one heck of a scolding. “I wasn't saying anything but that he needs to keep it down because you were sleepin--” Trevor's fingernails were carving trails along his scalp, the pain subdued by that of being repeatedly smacked against the dividing bedroom wall and feeling like his eyes were going to fall out of their sockets. “I HEARD YOU! FUCKER, ALRITE! DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME, I SAW YOU, I HEARD SOMETHIN' AND THEN LIKE THAT HE'S SQUEALIN', WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HIM?!” The hand choking him moved to his frail jawline, like a snake crushing its next meal Trevor began closing his grip, waiting for the squelchy sick squish of bone and muscle breaking under his strength. “Do I need to get the nut crack---” Ron's eyes grew large and he shook violently, though the name suggested otherwise it wasn't nuts Trevor would be cracking, he was a man of much talent, especially in creative torture methods.   
“NO! No, please. Look, all I said was “You need to keep it down, the boss is sleeping”, I swear on my life, Trevor, that's it. After that, he just got upset like he wanted you or something! I was trying to calm him when you--” The fingers yanked at his hair, removing a few strands as Trevor contorted him to expose his throat as if he planned on ripping away his jugular. “Oh yeah, so why was there the mention of “Little shit”? Huh? Don't pretend--” Ron nodded, accepting responsibility for the slip-up. “Yeah! My bad! He kicked his bottle through the fence we made and I kinda lost my temper for a second! But that was it, T. I wasn't----ACK!” The air in his lungs was about to be knocked free of them, Trevor had his face pressed against the chipping wallpaper with his teeth pressed into Ron's ear. Breathing harshly he proclaimed “If I ever hear you use such language on him like that again, you, Ronald, will be stripped naked and drowned in a bath of acid. Do you understand? I don't care if it was a slip-up, I don't care about some fucking coward excuse for talking to Mikey like he's a piece of meat. It happens again, you're going dick first into that tub. And I'll make sure you go in with every inch of you gashed open and spewing blood. Wanna know what it's like to feel your bones melting, Ron? Huh?” He whispered the last part with such malice Ron was shaking, he swore there were a few droplets of water at the corners of each eye. For one last dose of intimidation, he snapped his teeth against Ron's ear hole and snapped back, turning to Michael with the biggest, happiest grin he'd ever seen on a living being. Ron hastily edged himself away from the bedroom and ran, yelping that he was going to get Wade and head somewhere to fetch Michael a crib. Desperately the man cried for his friend to come over, slamming the door of the truck and honking the horn too fast to be considered hurrying. Trevor huffed but kept the smile plastered on his mouth while he lifted Michael into a sitting position, hands under his arms, cooing at him in the cheesiest voice possible. “Heeeeeooooo! What's the matta, ah? Did some big nasty asshole scare you?” He made a few odd tsk noises before heaving Michael into his lap and wrapping one arm around his pudgy waist. “We can't have that now, can we? No no no” For every no he planted a kiss on the man's cheek, running his free hand over Michael's head to soothe him. Though being a father had always been the one thing to drift from Trevor's thoughts, it didn't cease to enable his ability to be fatherly. In Michael's case, the actions came naturally, just as it had done with Tracey and James. Yes, Trevor could be a loud, rambunctious, outlandish and skittish nut job 90% of his days, but when he had to be serious or take care of something, or someone, his brain always came up with a way to push the crazed feelings aside and get him somewhat normal. Just enough...to get the job done. “Cmon, don't cry. Cmon, big guy”


	9. Family emergency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor makes a call. Meanwhile Frank is none the wiser to his mentor's condition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This I think was to be the latest chapter. I apologise if I'm wrong and for my crummy Lamar impression. It ain't so easy bein' hood.

The cellphone admitted a pleasant tone that rushed through Trevor's ear and into whatever part of his brain that required easing of social tension. He bit down on his lower lip and waited impatiently for the receiver of the call to answer, sure they'd be alive to speak with him and be told their good buddy was-”Yo, this Lamar Davis” Trevor blinked, pulling the phone away to examine the name he'd written and attached to the number, he stared at it with a befuddled expression.  
“Hello? Who be this? Bitch nigga that better not be you hood pussy over there-” Replacing the cell Trevor interrupted Lamar's defensive rambling. “It be Trevor, the guy you owe your life to for rescuing that sorry keister back in--”  
“Oh! Loopy Fruit! Yeah yeah, sorry about that dawg, we just been havin' some trouble down in the ghetto and these weasley bitches be fuckin' around with cho boi, L.D. You know what I'm saying. Yeah, my bad homi--” Trevor cut him off before his temper rose it's very rickety pedestal if there was one thing he hated more than bikers, it was moronic gangbangers trying to play hardball. “Where's Franklin? More to the point, what's got his phone in your pocket? I got somethin' important to tell 'im and wherever they've dumped his body, go find it so he can answer my damn calls!” For once listening to his probation officer's advice Trevor forced a sharp inhale through his teeth and held it, hissing the air out his nostril after the count of 8 seconds. “Yo boi be with Tanisha, dawg. Nigga got himself another go at bein' the bae materiel. Hopin' to get neck deep back in all dat pussy, you get what i'm sayin'?” He nodded, grunting and saying he knew exactly what Lamar was implying. “So Franklin's left his phone with you because he didn't wanna be interrupted while begging on his dishonest little knees for this Tanisha lady to take him back. Jesus, now who does that remind me of” He let a wayward glance hit the quiet form of his best friend turned manbaby as he wriggled and cooed to Wade scattering back and forth with the boxes of furniture they'd purchased on their run to Ikea. He greeted Mikey every single time he passed one doorway and headed to the other, it was actually grating Trevor's nerves but he was doing his best to stay calm and in control of the erratic emotions bubbling inside of him. “Naw naw, Nigga. It ain't like dat. No. Yo boi just forgot it, fact he called me on her cell to ask if I had it” Trevor could tell the difference of a lie and the truth, Lamar was covering, as a good buddy should, but in his case even a white lie to the ear of the man dubbed “Canada's war-mutt” was a mistake that'd cost heavily. “You got the button that calls the person back? Press it, tell him to trash the needy bitch routine and get over to my place asap. Its an emergency, family matters and last time I checked, Franklin-” Lamar's voice came fast and curious. “Emergency? You know how much I love poppin' nigga's, fool! Lemme-” T sighed, pressing a hand over his face and rubbing it. “Family emergency. Mi-Mi...” He didn't want to voice what'd happened, having to relive something he could have prevented and still blamed himself for. “Michael's had an accident” The disbelief that followed was strange as they all bet what might land the pig in a hospital bed one day, the alcohol, fast food and constant stress were guaranteed to have done him in sooner or later. “Shit man! Old Mac Creeper not doin' so good?” Again Trevor turned to look at Mikey who was sat three feet away on the floor, playing with his new mobile and word bricks, other than the amnesia he was in pretty okay health, but having the idea he was experiencing anything except that was...too much to think about. “He—um....had a fall. Couple days ago. We-uhhh, got him to a doctor, a personal friend and...guy ain't been the same since. He ain't...dead or nothin'. Just...” Trevor had to come across angry to throw off the assumption he was crying, which he was close to doing. Michael not being Michael anymore, the damage being permanent, he didn't want to lose that part of his life when Trevor had only just got it back. The situation was like some cliché of a sappy family oriented novel: Asshole drives everyone away, asshole gets sick and one person out of a dozen potential idiots comes and sees how much he's changed, how weak and frail the prick has become since they last spoke. Trevor almost thanked god for not doing that to him, ten years of being alone and then he finds Michael hooked up to various machines with a tube down his gullet. Or worse, a vegetable who just stared and couldn't communicate. Or...how he was then, right then, laughing and teething over a square block, oblivious to the world around him but so full of life. Trevor wanted to throw up and lock himself away but what would that've done? Instead, he continued with the conversation. “Just a little disorientated. Yeah. But don't say anythin' to Frank about it, just tell him to call me when he's done sticking it to his lady and I'll go over it with him. Thinkin' bout it, he might not wanna see Michael the way he is” Trevor snorted, hastily wiping his eyes with his knuckle and shooting Mikey a pained smile that was supposed to make it seem like things were okay. He must've picked up that it wasn't, and started rolling around in an attempt to get onto his belly and crawl across the floor. Trevor watched him, not knowing if what he was looking at was funny or just plain saddening. He ended the call without further explanation and went over to snatch a bottle of baby formula off the counter. Beside it was a small napkin which he stuck in his pocket to free up one of his hands. He was perched beside the mobile when finally Michael succeeded in rolling over, though instead of crawling the few feet, he placed both hands, plus his full body weight onto Trevor's knees and pushed himself up. What should've hurt like hell felt as if a small coyote had put its paws on his leg, barely anything, or maybe he was already in so much pain that nothing else matched it. He raised the bottle and whipped out the napkin, putting it under Mikey's chin. “Open wide, Sug---Open that hatch, Mikey” The nickname didn't suit him anymore, it didn't feel right giving the creature his running buddy's mocking title when he was anything but sweet. The thing, the Michael faced thing, had not been corrupted yet, not by an abusive father or shitty friends, or life altering injury that stole his football career. He was a blank slate. So it was fitting to dub Mikey with something new, something that actually fitted his character and playful, cute personality. Before the accident, Michael had a problem with liquid textures. It was the main reason he was so picky about what he drank, why he owned a fucking juicer because any pulp made him wanna gag or retch his guts onto the floor. But right then, he took the substance offered without a single try to avoid it, well, least on the first try, after swallowing he made a face and moved away from the bottle, however, T understood, having taken a sip himself and had to go spit it out. The difference was uncanny...and even more soul destroying.


	10. Ronny and Wade build a nursery!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade discovers his talent for building Ikea furniture.

He couldn't find the will that might've dared him to leer toward the ever ticking clock nailed precariously above the photo frame displaying a single photograph of him and Patricia Madrazo previous to returning the woman to her less than rightful partner. A blurred, sleep deprived flick of the eyes got Trevor nothing but the distorted outline of the number 2 and what could've been interpreted to be a shittily cut out 7. He encouraged a second attempt and found the hour to range somewhere between 1 and 2 in the morning. Those inhabiting Sandy Shores and the general Alamo Sea area, far as he knew, were unconscious and incapable of hearing the ruckus culminating from the trailer garage, or closer to the label...nursery. “B-45 goes in C-36. T-89 goes in.....Oh! B-57! I got it, Treber!” The redneck trio stacked the best part of the sun lit hours renovating the dilapidated and loosely held stapled storage garage, or weapon armoury as Trevor preferred to address it. “That's fantastic,Wade. Who knew we'd find somethin' you were actually talented in” The heavy-lidded meth abuser yawned, letting his aching neck drape to the right and poor view spill onto the pacifier gnawing manchild sprawled over an 8 foot tall Costco teddy bear that lay beside his feet. Seeing his friend so peaceful while crushing the toy under his bulk as he took the 13th nap since coming home from the doctor, it brought a tiny smile to Trevor's scarred features, hell, he wondered if he'd ever experience that sort of contentment being the father to a real baby. The second thought that crossed his mind...came as: Would he ever get to find a woman to have a child with? Would Trevor settle down and be able to have a family? It was a question he didn't feel ready to hear the answer to. Being not as dumb as the numerous teachers, bullies, foster parents and cops said he was, Trevor was certain he already knew the answer, yet he refused to acknowledge it and rather he be deaf to whatever his rationality had to say. Wives, kids, white picket fences, they'd have to be put on hold for awhile...a long while if Cullswine's medical warning was as terrifyingly accurate as he feared.   
“Come back to me soon, brother. Don't think I can handle being much of a dad to yah...hah...too many diapers to change alone. Less we find you a momma to even the load. Doubt she'd wanna tit feed the likes of you, though. Sorry, kid” like he was conscious, Mikey's brow furrowed as he coughed up a high, ear scratching whine, as though understanding the joke Trevor just made and disliking it intensely. His carer belted a low chuckle, not enough to rouse Mike yet it certainly caught the attention of Ronald, who'd been sentenced to do his boss's relentless bidding for however long he saw fit until justice was achieved. “You call, Boss?” He poked his upper half through the newly built doorway led down into the nursery by some concrete stairs. “Nawh. No, Ron. But ughhh, fix fatty here some milk. Think he...ummm...mm” He slurred the remainder of the sentence in such a way you would've thought Trevor was drunk. Ron barely understood the word “Thirsty” since it left his employers lips in a liquidy gush of drool and unswallowed Pisswiser. Absorbed by the warm, talcum powder scented haze, Trevor went cheek first into the neighbour couch cushion. A strong snore erupted as sleep finally stole him away for the evening, leaving Ron to clatter about and trip on his own two feet as he scrambled to heat the dairy product that'd become Mikey's third successfully consumed bottle of the day. If not with a little helpful force feeding from Wadey. “Rise and shine, handsome” The juggalo's voice dare he say came as a welcomed snooze repellant, enticing Trevor's eyes to flutter open daintily only to get blindsided by the flash of late morning sun. Visually stunned by the intruding summer light and then enduring the tear baring oder that admitted from Wade's shit soaked pores, T got a leg under himself and used it to push off, throwing the other to catch himself on and then swinging the rest of him around till he was standing upright. He appeared as a drunk anime protagonist might following the walk home from a bar full of scantily clad school girls all crying for their senpai to beat the lizard king and get back their virginities or something stupid and far fetched that like. Trevor scanned the floor for signs of his infant brained running buddy, wobbling to the bedroom should Mikey have become fussy and needed to swat at the dangerously low homemade mobile they built him to compensate for the lack of distractions the nights before. Slowly Trevor twisted himself around, cracking his neck at a 90-degree angle till the body accompanied it. “Where's the manchild?” He asked flatly, raising a brow. Wade bounced excitedly and motioned him to come down into the nursery, which he did, stomping after his worker and then being attacked by an abomination of all four walls plastered with pastel colours and cute animals. It was Trevor's idea of hell but this version had a lullaby rendition of “Mama” by My Chemical Romance quietly twinkling away in the background. “Surprise, Trevor!” Ron explained, leaping out of the milkshake pink wardrobe. “We finished the nursery. Now you ain't gotta sleep on the couch no more. Kid's got his own bed” He waved his arm, indicating the direction Mikey was at: They'd achieved carrying him through the trailer and down the four-step staircase to his new bedroom slash playroom, the two had also dressed him in a pair of tan khaki's, green boat shoes and a blue, duck printed button down. Mikey was perched within his crib, hammering away at some blocks so violently he was close to breaking the container and shaped holes he'd placed the wrong blocks in. “Wow, you uhhh, did a good job” Trevor had no clue what to say to the idiot duo standing with him, they'd done such an amazing job renovating the garage he actually considered giving them the remainder of the day off as a reward. But then again he needed help with Michael, changing a grown man's diapers was one thing, changing the diapers of a grown man who kicked like a fucking boxer...well, that was still disturbing but only now was it twice as painful. “Why don't...you go and...get some ice cream? I...I can take it from here” He said, not really conscious enough to think of a way to berate them for something invisible or plain nonexistent that they didn't do. “Go, have fun, before I change my mind. Be back by eight...bring food” Giggling, Ron and Wade were out of there faster than Jimmy when the weed fairy brought his van full of puppies round. They promised to return that evening with the food requested and left to enjoy their one day off. “Well” He waited for the door to slam shut and then moved to the gate of the crib, looking down at his friend with a strange sense of bewilderment, the second wave to hit him since the accident began. Mikey glanced up, intrigued by the shadow looming above him. “C'mere, Tiny Dancer” Mike squealed as he was lifted into his carers arms. “How bout we go watch Barney, hmm?. Have some Daddy and Baby time” And off they went.


	11. Foolin' The Feds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The De Santa's have put the fat man's last known whereabouts in the corrupt hands of David Norton. With his least favourite government-protected witness suddenly out of sight, he plans on questioning a common suspect in a variety of murder, abduction and drug related cases. Yet, with the lack of evidence, he settles on a very uncomfortable phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, everybody! I bring you the latest chapter of Baby Brain Blues. Well second to latest as I have pages written and saved for next week and you know what i mean!   
> This was probably the page that had me falling over and screaming because it's so stinking cute, I apologize for any injuries caused by this fic and the number of chairs broken by you falling whilst in them. 
> 
> Or the chair's broken because the cuteness overload had you smashing them into walls. We have those days too. 
> 
> Piece folks!

The spoon may only be wicked as those who wield it...in that case...it'd been one damn wicked spoon as Trevor held the utensil between his damaged fingers, sat opposite to a lazily updated child's swing chair he ordered his lackeys to procure for Mikey as a temporary stand-in whilst the group jotted blueprints for a custom seat reinforced enough to stay intact beneath the sweaty ass of America's ugliest. Well, not as ugly as that Honey Booboo, TV show having and child obesity glamorising, pageant winner brat but would still easily take second place. “Chef said to pace you on the whole food thing, buuuutttt I thought we'd be closer to having you back to your old lying self if we could get you on solids after...however many hours. Trevor really is a genius!” He contorted his upper torso to face the back of the trailer, addressing himself in the third person. “Why thank you, Trevor, how kind of you to take acknowledgement of my incredible intuition!” his body snapped to the side facing the door, a different voice exiting his throat. “Who am I to ignore such a--” Breaking the dialogue, Trev's pant leg shook uncontrollably, his phone vibrating to an automated ring tone that mimicked Tatu's track 'Not Gonna Get Us'. The lunatic's mouth drew itself to form a menacing snarl, the caller I.D reading: #2 Mrs DS, He flicked a thumb across the cracked screen and pressed it to his ear, but was too enraged by his cellular presence to speak into the receiver, ushering David Norton to initiate the conversation. “Mr. Philips?” Trevor's teeth dug into his bottom lip while he subconsciously skimmed through his options evading the head of the corrupt division of the CIA bureau.   
“Mr. Philips, I would like to speak with you. We have a pressing matter on our hands and you are a prime suspect in what could likely turn into a disappearance investigation if not handled correctly. I'm calling on behalf of the De Santa's” His brain fizzled and popped at the information given through the speaker, small sparks of memory hitting the areas he'd been failing to use recently. Michael's family, covering the list of all the things he'd not done, it was to call them and make up an elaborate story about why he was staying at the trailer for another week, extending a number of months....perhaps years. How long Michael's recovery required, honestly. “His wife tells me Michael is supposed to be staying at your trailer in Blaine County. Yet was scheduled to come home a number of days ago” Trevor blinked, looking around for a magazine or tv remote to display the date and month they were currently on. He settled on the small television on the kitchen counter, bringing up the guide he noted the time Michael spent there, and gulped, it was close to being a fortnight and his family had gone wordless for most of it, god what sort of uncle was he? Wiping his face, Trevor spoke, regret audible in his tone as he wedged the cell between his ear and shoulder, unscrewing the cap on the urine coloured applesauce jar and prepping a scoop that, if he prayed, Mikey might not heave back up and onto T's favourite Lovefist shirt.   
“Uhh—yeaaahhh. Yeah, my fault there. Yah see...” Hastily Trevor fought to manifest a believable lie that'd see David Norton's rear end as he left the friends to themselves and explain to Michael's overbearing barbie doll that he just wanted to enjoy a third week of blistering weather and cheap booze in his best bud's company. “There's been some...marital problems. More outta the usual, get what I'm sayin', Davey?” If there was a prize for most unconvincing lie ever told, you'd have 'Trevor' engraved on the plaque, plus his photo in the book of world records stating him 'Crappiest lier'.   
“I do, but from experience, we know you and Mr. De Santa have shared some conflicts throughout your visits to Los Santos, one that...involved you offering him to the Chinese mafia and refusing to cooperate when asked regarding his location-” “-Now hold your horses, Norton! I did not offer him to the Chinese, they showed up in Ludendorff and I was in too fragile a state after digging up who I'd wasted nearly ten years thinking was my best friend! to stick around and cover his scaly fucking keister! And maybe I was a little cagey, but the kid found him! Yeah, I bared witness to his kidnapping, doesn't mean I was involved!” Setting his eyes to his infant-minded running buddy, Trevor was certain he glared at him through a spoonful of applesauce, Trevor mouthed the words “Sue me!” and begrudgingly took a napkin to Mikey's unamused pout. “Wether you were part of his kidnapping or...an innocent bystander, your ties to criminal figureheads and general disregard for society and the law will make you a suspect if what you say is not true” David sighed, taking an exasperated breath and then openly saying he was getting too old for his job. Trevor, relieved Mikey had consumed the smooth pulpy spoonful and not barfed on him, however right then he assumed it'd be out of vengeance for abandoning him instead of actually having his stomach irritated by the meal, small mercies and all that. “It is true! Look, outta all the things you can say about me...Jesus Christ” He plopped the spoon into the jar and let his free hand ruffled Mikey's hair, a look of admiration and unconditional loving warmth emanating from his dark eyes. “...Bein' someone who dismembers and buries his friends in the arctic tundra ain't one of them. Mike's here. At the trailer. Hangin' with me same as he was when he first showed up” As if on command Mikey's head whipped to the tiny screen previewing a shot of that weeks Dino and Arny, something they did, caused laughter to envelop the aluminum deathtrap Trevor told people was his home and David, on the other line, made a contented exhale, like he'd been holding onto the air so long he forgot how to expel it.   
“He must be having a good time, I didn't know the man could laugh” Sweet, sweet sassy David. “Believe me now?” Trevor added sarcastically, shoving a congratulatory blob of applesauce into Mike's mouth as he clapped and wriggled due to sheer excitement that came from watching a cartoon about an anorexic dinosaur and her unrealistically buff canine brother. “Yes” Norton replied, clearly no longer in his confined office building as Trevor could easily hear the bustling city traffic and heavy footed pedestrians trudging to work or lunch or some blind date where the man had second thoughts or hid in the bushes and monitored his date who'd cry on behalf of being ditched and then order a salad even though she weighed 300 pounds and looked like the alien sex master from star wars. “But I need him to call the family and confirm his whereabouts, nothing I say will ease Amanda's worry.” David told him. “Ahhhh, throw some money at her, that usually works. Or coupons for free silicone injections” T answered, waving him off dismissively and leaning back into the couch. “Mr. Philips-” “Fine! But not right now, Chocolate Dipped Moms is on!” “MR PHILIPS” and he was gone.


	12. Alerting the cavalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda gets the info on her missing hubby, too bad it's what she expected, empty promises and heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last of the pre-written pages, I'm hoping to catch up before the next page is due but if not, I apologise in advance for any lateness. But if I am on time...well you know the drill. This is where the sort begins to roll of its own accord, follow the characters and whatnot. For all you readers hoping to see some De Santa family, here you go. More of them to come with lots of feels and slight hints of Franklin and Tracey. Have fun!

Three hours straight on the Senora Freeway back in Los (Plastic and Luxurious) Santos, The De Santa household was currently a bee hive of activity: Michael's overinflated and tight skinned sex doll of a wife was nodding her head to the corrupt (In a good way) FIB agent's intel on her spouse's whereabouts, stamping a bare foot down on the kitchen tile that signalled to their maid to hurry to the cupboard and fetch her employer a shot glass to go alongside the unopened bottle of ten year old scotch she had been saving for a certain someone's birthday. Fuck if he was getting any of that now. She silently thanked the Hispanic woman and slugged the golden liquid that burned a smoky trail through her esophagus as David went on. She requested a second to nurse while humming to announce her presence on the phone, moments dragged her already abused and conflicted feelings across the dirt to where David apologised and metaphorically threw up his hands, telling his client there was no legal action to take as Trevor wasn't keeping his friend hostage, Amanda expressed her displeasure and bid him farewell, not before offering the Bureau director a drink with her in town that evening, knowing well of her self-healing booze habit, he declined and they ended the call. Not a second later Jimmy strolled into the kitchen holding his laptop and a web design portfolio to show the guys at Life-Invader.  
“Hey Mom” Having detected the faint whiff of alcohol on his mother and caught the final millisecond of what he took as a call from the federal government, Jimmy's heart unintentionally skipped a beat and a dull throbbing sensation began to ebb over his temples. He turned, completing the sentence. “Was that Uncle David? Di—did they find him?” Jimmy was all too well prepared for the news of a fat, permanently bitch faced corpse to be uncovered somewhere near the city or out near the Blaine County Desert; Most likely spot being under a layer of concrete or wrapped in a sheet and tied to cinder blocks then dropped into the alamo sea. Or thrown from a great height and left gazing up at the sky while the killer made a hasty getaway. What if he'd just been shot in the head and left in his car? Surely nobody would go out of their way to hide it? This was Michael Townley, wanted stick-up-man whose career went on from the 1980's to the early 2000's. He had plenty of enemies, cops and rogue feds being top of the list. The woman finished her tumbler and snorted, appearing on the cusp of tears and then coughing her reply “M-Mom? Is...is he okay?” The silence felt worse than the possible outcome that his father was dead somewhere, Jimmy loathed her when she was like this, unresponsive and resentful as all hell. Finding a job would've been his escape route if Jimmy's only mode of transport hadn't been repossessed, but he figured until his bank account cleared staying around wouldn't be so bad. Until now. The young man looked at the caller I.D and swallowed as his stomach churned, he looked at Amanda and asked her again, hoping for an answer. “HI!!” Trust the flower of the family to come barging in and interrupt their mother just when she was about to spill the beans. “I need help! Frankie is coming over and I need to wear something that doesn't make me look easy. Not that it's been a problem before but I want this time to be different. So!” Not letting either James or Amanda speak she held up two outfits on fabric hangers. “The Boobtube and cropped legging or jacket and leather pants?” Jimmy gave literally no fucks as he said “Tracey, Our dad could be dead right now. Have a little consideration and stop worrying over what you wear because no matter what, you're always gonna look like a skank. And not even a classy skank” Her arms fell, panicked eyes grew wide and glossed over as the one brain cell she carried began to process what her brother was saying. “He's dead? They found a body?!” Just like her mother, Tracey's gaze took on that of someone seconds away from wailing their heart out. “No, idiot!” James clarified. “Could be! Mom won't tell me anything, I just came in and found her drinking” Tracey's tone immediately flicked up three noticed and the sad kitten face contorted into a mixture of scowls that both her parents inherently gave her through the genetic pool.“What the hell, Mom! If you know something you gotta tell us. We're not little kids anymore, we can handle it” Amanda's lips pursed into a thin line, she cradled the tumbler between manicured fingers and turned, crossed her arms and quietly padded towards the french doors when at last the words like her mouth. “He doesn't want to come home” Her body went numb at the thought of their newly rejuvenated marriage being nothing but a hoax or just another empty promise to keep her under his thumb. What Norton had informed her of, Michael had told his buddy of so-called 'Marital Issues', when for the last year they'd spent ages talking about having their vows renewed and going on the honeymoon they weren't able to the first time since she'd been pregnant with Tracey and they had spent the money on nursery supplies and rent. It chilled her to know Michael still spoke ill of their relationship behind her back, to know Trevor would always be his confidant and not Amanda herself, his own wife, unable to be that person Michael told all his secrets to, his fears, his desires. Perhaps come 2017, those renewed vows would manifest into divorce papers.  
Amanda left her children to go perform some calming yoga poses under the dull light of the late afternoon.  
“Mo-” Tracey went to follow her, but almost tripped over her slippered feet when Jimmy took hold of her wrist and kept his sister back. “Leave it, Trace. I think she just wants to be alone right now.”  
“But what about dad! Is she serious about him not wanting to come home? Did we do something wrong?”  
“I don't think so, sis. Maybe...Maybe they just had a fight or somethin', or maybe dad's having another midlife crisis”  
“Isn't he too old for one of those?”  
“No. Look, It's not our fault. Who knows, could just be dad and uncle T wanting some bro time. You know, catch up on the ten years they missed because dad got cold fee---” As Jimmy spoke his sisters phone beeped a message onto it's screen, happy to see it was from her boyfriend she opened it without a second thought, only for Jim to watch her face fall once again and her hand to move in front of his face, holding the phone to his eyes. He scanned it momentarily, mumbling the words to himself and then recoiling, a look of uncertainty emerging. He mouthed the last few broken sentences. “Reschedule. Family emergency. Needs me in Sandy Shores...”  
“...Daddy”  
“What if the old man ain't got a choice about coming home. Cmon, we're taking your car to Uncle T's. We'll follow F!”


	13. Can you two not fight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, as you can see, I'm trying something new with this, a new method of writing out the story so tell me what you guys think, like is it easier? Is it too short or too confusing, tell me how I'm going so I can edit my style accordingly to get the best outcome, This is just a tester so if you don't like it, I'll go back to the old way of jotting these things.  
> I know this page is short, Again, new style, trying to ease myself into it until I feel like I've gotten to know it better and we can go from first base to second. Yes, I just compared a new writing method to a date, I'm a weird excuse for a human. 
> 
> before I go I want to say that there may be a couple Character/reader segments on the way, also that I have a headcanons if anybody wants to talk about them. 
> 
> My new favourite is Trevor getting a little chubby after ending C/relationship with Mike headcanon. Since the game is so about cliches I thought about Trevor gaining weight because that's apparently what happens when you get into a relationship, you get so comfortable you let yourself go. He doesn't get obviously fatter, like Michael, he stays in good shape but kinda has that tiny belly bloat you get after eating too much. yes, there will be fanfiction about it, don't judge me because I'm already judging myself. 
> 
> the character/reader things will range from all audiences to mature, so if you want some hot Trevor/reader action, it'll be there. If you want just warm baths and cuddles that stuff will be around too. 
> 
> And, as a final thing, I am announcing the fact that I will be, soon hopefully, creating Until Dawn/Undertale/other content for this account.  
> So if you adore the Great Papyrus as much as I do, stay tuned. 
> 
> PS: I also headcanoned that Trevor and Mike adopt Rami and try to help him stop being awkward and anti social--NOT SORRY! 
> 
> Byeeeeee

“Yo! Franklin.You mind us tailhoggin', dawg?” Jimmy called from the backseat of the his sisters mini cooper, casually resting his chins on the headrest and gesturing at the faulty GPS system that ran on a pirated update of the latest satalite coordinates. 

“Hi! I'm sorry for asking you to pull over and wait for us, babe. But this is real serious” Tracey cut in, halting his attempt to continue the subject of being their escort through Tongva Drive, neither of them having ever ventured further than Chumash or the bullet heavy ghetto area of Los Santos. 

She gingerly trotted into her boyfriend's arms and gave him an apology in the form of a kiss which automatically gained a negative reaction from James who may or may not have had a totally no-homo crush on the three-bit gangbanger. 

“GAY!” He looked like a disapproving child, eyes clamped shut, tongue stuck out and the thumbs down aimed specifically toward his older sibling and her partner. 

“You wouldn't know gay if it put its dick in your ass, Jimmy!” 

“Uh, I kinda would” The wannabe troll exclaimed “Cus there'd be a dick in my ass” 

“Like you know what one looks like anyway!” Tracey spun to look directly at him, her posture resembling a certain bank robbers and yet radiating nine times the level of heat and intimidation. 

“Oh yeah, you're way more of a dick connoisseur than I am, sis. By far. You know, you could open a restaurant based on the amount of jizz you collected over the years” 

“FUCK YOU” 

“Ey, Ey! Can you two go two seconds without shouting at each other? Now we don't got time for this!” 

“Yeah, Tracey. If you remember, we are supposed to be prying our father from what could be the clutches of our emotionally corrupt uncle” Jimmy's face went slack as he laid an arm on the car door and used it to craft a pillow for his head. 

“Wha? Naw dawg, Trevor called me couple hours ago. Yo dads had an accident or some shit, a fall. I wasn't there so Lamar picked up the phone, told me everythin' when I got back to the condo. From the sound of things, he ain't doin' too good” 

Tracey went rigid, every worst case scenario whirlling behind her eyes like a fucking movie projector as she wondered what grade of fall her dad had recently suffered that'd force him to stay with their uncle, more importantly, the reason that Trevor hadn't called them personally. 

Things were beginning to click, thoughts the family had and ideas they came up with, conversations she'd heard earlier that week and not to forget, their Uncle David Norton. He'd relayed the information to their mother who rightfully stormed off believing it was a matter of her asshole of a husband wanting time away from reality, to bathe in youthful memories and reminice next to someone who tolerated his narcisstic ego ever so slightly better than she could. 

The realisation she and James were being protected from something set off alarm bells that only she knew too fucking well.

In Tracey's head...it was Ludendorff all over again. 

“Somethings wrong” She huffed back tears in the same manner she'd caught her father doing throughout her childhood. Blinking fast an inhaling more air than one person alone actually needed to keep their lungs in good shape. 

Tracey shook herself of the worry and fear and threw her keys at the fatter one, marching to her boyfriend's sports car and sitting in the passenger side before slamming the door and quietly sinking into the leather. 

James grumbled, clambering about the mini until he was firmly squished at the steering while. He motioned at Frank to go get inside his vehicle so they could take off together, make a beeline for Sandy Shores and then confront Trevor on what the fuck it was he was trying to hide from them. If it was good enough to convince Norton, there was definitely a problem.  
“You better be okay, old man” Jimmy whispered, putting his foot down hard on the pedal. “Please be okay”


	14. No one puts baby in a meth lab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang are on their way and tempers are at an all time high at the Philips household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me how I managed to jot this fucker up in like an hour, the energy was there, I did it, meanwhile I cooked some chicken, I'm Mary fuckin' Poppins. 
> 
> So, as always I come to the notes bearing gifts of nonsense, insane rambles and news. Mostly insane ramblings. 
> 
> For the past few days, I've been really getting back into creepypasta which is pretty big for me as it means my concentration is slowly getting back on track, it's also brought me back to a genre I've missed a lot which is horror and spoopy things, and all the terrible ideas that come along with them. 
> 
> Speaking of ideas, Yes, I am very much tempted to introduce a creepypasta series into the mix, I know it's giving me more to do but if it keeps me active mentally and expands things then I'm all for it and I can mix it up instead of having a stream of fluff or mush or heartache, because sometimes you need that bit of horror to clean the reading pallet.  
> Don't worry it's not just that, I also have some cute ideas too to add to the list. 
> 
> In terms of fics, here are the following new ones that I have planned and even talked about with friends regarding if I should write them or not: 
> 
> A dark Michael fic which is a one part inner monologue about Trevor ignoring him, But uh, he's not ignoring him. If you read creepypasta you know the number of ways this can go. 
> 
> This I actually forgot to mention last time but the next one is a take on the Shaamoo, is it Shaamoo? I can't remember, but the rejected Trikey mission that people found in the code of the game and that they found audio for. If you need it, search tumblr and youtube, you will find it, and all your dreams will die. Or come true, depending who you ship! 
> 
> The third idea is from way long ago, this, like BBB was a joke and meant to be laughed at but like always I found some way to make it heartfelt and nice and I'm sorry: Trevor gets a box sent to him from his aunt in Canada and in it, he finds a photograph of his father, of course, he does this at Michael's condo because why not, but Michael starts shitting his pants when he goes upstairs and gets a family picture from the draw with the exact same guy in it...and they realise they're actually related. A paternity test shows they're half brothers and chaos ensues. Yes, Trevor takes the brother thing too seriously and demand they bond and gets super clingy.  
> This stems from playing the game and during one point, Michael and Trevor made the exact same fucking face and I lost my shit over how alike they were, as always it found a way to ruin my life. 
> 
> Finally and I think this has to be my most mushy one yet: Trevor gets into a car accident during a race, he smashes into a wall because he's too busy gloating about having won and winds up in a hospital bed in some random city he has no idea about. Cue Michael disguised as Teche nerd Albert De Silva to come comfort his injured hubby.  
> Just picture...overly affectionate, glasses wearing...man bun wearing cyber nerd. Also I love man buns but with Michael, no, no, stawp, stawp, no, just no Michael. 
> 
> Think thats it on the ideas front for now. 
> 
> For those wanting to know my health status: Like I said, concentration getting a little better, emotions still very up and down, and I got some news that I most likely have something that contributes to my hormone problem, the problem itself being a big symptom along with a good list of other things that I have. I didn't expect to be as upset about it as I was, and still am but you know, gotta take it on the chin and keep moving. 
> 
> Lastly, I want to thank everyone for showing their support and the sweet comments and general amazingness.  
> I also wanna thank my friends for booting me up the ass because without them I wouldn't have made this account or posted.  
> Just would'a been sat in my room eating ramen all day and crying over how bad my art is.  
> Oh yeah, I've also made fanart using photoshop, I might post it to my pinterest or keep it locked away forever. 
> 
> Okay I love you all, catch you later bye!

Their employer's animalistic circling had recently manifested into a petrifying militarian stride that expressed his rank as a decorated air force cadet, the tweaker, and his paranoid conspiracy theorist buddy were huddled into a corner with their arms wrapped around each other in perpetual horror from the ideas searing the idiots already meth-fried heads. 

Trevor was an abominable force, whirling madly between the trailors one bedroom and the edge of the kitchen counter, he might've smashed a bottle or slit the throat of the nearest Lost member if there wasn't someone residing in the living quarters who was too mentally inpaired to not see the blood as strawberry syrup or the glass as shards of sugar candy. 

“Now-now boss” Ron stuck a hand out defensively “You don't gotta be all hopped up like this. Franklin didn't know-

The murderer halted, shoulders hunched, neck contorted in a way that brought a yelp out from the older male's belly, eyes burning brighter than the very depths of hell, Trevor advanced, wanting any excuse to wring his chicken-like companion harder than a fucking soaked undergarment. He was livid. 

“But he did, I told 'um. Lamar told 'um. “Come straight here” AND MAKE SURE YOU'RE NOT FOLLOWED” 

Wade looked smaller than he'd ever done, like a child he meekly raised his arms to protect Ronald from the meth-addicts violence, alas he was shoved back into the wall and curled in on himself. 

“It's Michael's kids!” The other protested “Ain't like the F.I.B have a tail on him. Trevor, listen-” 

“NO! YOU FUCKIN' LISTEN-!” He leaned in close, both hands on Ronald's face, thumbnails piercing the man's skin as blood slowly trickled over them, one sat just above Ron's eyebrow whilst it's twin held his gaunt cheek, all at once the world began to blur and all Trevor could see was crimson as he smiled sickly, squishing Ron's head between his fingers.

“Aghhhh!” His body registered being shoved, hard, in an instant Trevor let go and looked upon the youngest of the three, Wade now stood protectively between him and Ron, an arm hugging his upper torso in a slight resemblance to how Tracey hugged her uncle at the Fame or Shame rehersal, his face...for a brief moment Trevor saw something in him that almost stopped the man in his tirade, a glimmer of disobedience, the capablity to be his own person if only Wade were self assured enough to see himself higher than his superiors. “Leave 'em alone, Trevor. He's right” The poor thing sniffled, reverting back to the scared little imp he typically was. 

Wade buried his face in Ron's chest, bracing himself at the sight of Trevor's arm heading skyward in a series of twitchy, uneven muscle spasms brought on by his uncharacteristic affection towards their friend which Trevor's own psyche could not fathom even though he too had experienced similar spikes during his period as Mrs. Madrazo's bodyguard/lover. 

“Insabordinate—MOTHER-FUCK---” Just as Trevor was about to give him one hell of a beating, his cell blipped, looked like Wade had a guardian angel because his would be attackers body went slack as he hurriedly dipped into his pocket to retrieve the device, opening it to see a message informing Trevor of the gangs whereabouts. 

They were at a gas station not three miles outta Sandy, a shredded tire being the cause of their delay, that and Jimmy's need for Gas station burritos. 

“Fuck!” Trevor shook his head, putting a hand on top of his matted hair and stressfully prying at the thinning locks. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck, FUCK!” 

“Th-They here?!” Ron stuttered out, still clutching his human lifeline. 

“Couple miles” Trevor bent double, the anxiety churning his stomach into a mess of bile and week old hummus. “Fuck, we gotta hide 'em. Tracey can't see 'em like this, Jimmy neither. Nobody wants to see their dad fuckin' shittin' himself and talkin' gibberish” He opened his mouth, nose stuffy because every one of his orifices wanted to vacate, to get the hell out of there and take Mike with him, imagining Tracey's reaction to her fathers altered state was too much for him to think about right then, he needed space, to clear his head and his heart of the inevitable. “We gotta hide 'em” 

“You can take 'im back to the office, lay low while we distract the others” Ron suggested, the fear relinquishing him. 

“No...You take 'em. You and Wade, I'm makin' you idiots honorary daddies for the week. Take 'em, and don't come back till I give the all clear. Take some'a his shit with you, I just...gotta think this through. Be good to 'um, alrite” There were tears in his eyes, Trevor bit his knuckles and turned away quietly, no doubt thinking out every possible way the meeting could go between him and his family. No...not his family, Michaels. They stopped being his family ten years ago...


	15. Chef's a shitty uncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chef has some choice words to say about being saddled with two idiots and a manchild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I wanna say that this is gonna be my last update for two weeks starting from today: Don't worry, nothing serious, I just feel like my brain is doing that thing again where it spits out ideas like gunfire and so I don't have enough time to think on something before I write it and put it out there for people to read, that's I'm not gonna be updating next Monday, but the Monday after, just to give my brain a rest and to focus on things within a larger, less stressful time frame, like I can write whenever, and even if I end up doing a ton in one week there's no deadline, it's just me, my computer, my terrible cola habit and some gta feels.  
> I'm sorry guys, I know you can't wait for this and I hate having to take time off but do not fear! I will be back with more baby Mikey, if I have so many chapters done I might even post with two new chapters! Might even have some new stories altogether. 
> 
> Secondly, I am creating my own series, I talked about it like a year and a half ago but now I'm finally getting it on damn paper, it's a long-running series that spans currently three generations but I'm debating on starting at the second or the third.  
> If anybody is interested in that, just lemme know and I'll fill you in on the details. 
> 
> Thirdly, I am considering doing audio readings of fanfiction for you guys, Problem is i dunno where I could post them, Maybe soundcloud but I dunno if that's just for music or just any kind of audio, still looking and if I can find somewhere I'll put links and there in the notes so you can go find them.  
> Seriously there needs to be like, an Ao3 sound section for people who wanna read stories out loud to readers. 
> 
> Lastly, I know I always do this but I just wanna say thank you to everyone, seriously, you help so much, I'm able to drag myself out of bed in the morning because you guys do so much for me by just supporting me and being so nice, it's helping ease the depression alot, just knowing you're here and so sweet. 
> 
> Btw sorry for spamming you with stories the last couple days, forgive me, this is half the reason I'm taking a break so when I do post there's a bigger gap and nobody is getting smacked in the face with this stuff. 
> 
> Okay, I'm gonna go, one final thing I wanna ask is: What do you guys think I should get on a T-Shirt? I'm going to go to one of those print places that put your stuff on shirts and I wanna do a gta themed one, I'm debating on words vs fanart (My own, don't worry) so if anybody has a suggestion that'd really help. 
> 
> Okay, I love you guys, thanks again. Have a great week and I'll see you all later. Piece homies.

“Wanna explain why you brought the retard here?” Ron and his Juggalo associate craned their necks to focus their eyes on the office roof, the youngest offering a short wave as he became ignorant to the rattled meth cook poking his head out a crudely repaired window. 

“Boss's orders, man. This guy's family's come to look for 'um” The over-suspicious one clarified, tucking hands under the fussy manchild's arms in preparation for lifting the two hundred pound simpleton off the truck bed. 

Chef's own limbs left the windowpane as did his torso, the man leant out to gesture at the straight transparency of the current situation, features twisted to express how lightly ruffled his feathers were, yet still surprised his coworkers had not come to the conclusion of such a possibility occurring. 

“No shit, Sherlock!” Their apron-clad friend barked “And if not the family then it's the fucking F.I.B” 

The two struggled to slide Mikey to the edge of the truck, their combined effort and incessant chattering exasperated by Chef's aggravated dialogue falling from the roof culminated into sensory overload, the infant-minded con artist saw it all as the green light to recede into himself, large fingers retracting to build a loose fist, knees bent and pressed up against his belly, ankles together at the heel, it was the early formation of self-defence. 

“He's the biggest liability we have! Somebody realises this guy's in our hands and our entire operation blows up” Chef continued, pointing the accusatory finger. 

“We have it under control!” Ron chimed in, casting his gaze back to the truck's bed only to grimace in response to his boss's now agitated friend's distressed cooing, Mikey's minute swaying giving him cause to panic. 

“No, Ron! We don't. You idiots being saddled to this halfwit means so am I!” 

He'd made short time of scurrying through the building to further on the heated conversation, all but shouting the last sentence enough to rattle the foundations as he marched across the store front and out the back door to the fenced loading bay. 

“I know it looks bad, but Trevor-” Ron tried, sadly to get his portion chopped down the middle as Chef advanced, squaring up to him in a manner none of them had seen in a long while, not since his early days on the crew as a long-haired, heavily pierced former nurse. 

“-Trevor's gonna the be the first in line to decapitate our asses if things go south! He's made that abundantly clear” 

“Not if we do our jobs, right” The conspiracy theorist backed off “All he wants is a place to hide the kid” 

“So that's what it is now?! Jesus H Christ, Ron! Does that look anything like a kid to you?” It didn't matter the number of steps he took to dull the intensity of Chef's stare, even through glasses he could feel the physical inferno pouring out of the man's skin, invisible steam clouding his generally neutral aura. 

“Trevor's words, not mine” The older man defended “We ain't gonna stay here long-” 

“How am I supposed to cook?! T's got me on a schedule and you know shipments ain't been what they used to since-” 

“-I do know! You ain't the only guy here suffering financially because of the drug crackdown” Ron argued, finding it within himself to bump chests with Chef, the reminder of his divorce settlement eating away the anxiety stopping him from getting as far into Chef's grill as he was Ronald's. 

“I got my own problems too, man. I still got alimony checks to sign and half the time my job don't even pay out!” 

“If you get it then why-”

“-Because T said the cookhouse don't matter! He wants the place clear so Michael don't die from eating all them crystals we got up there! He said we can move the operation to another spot or pack it away till things are taken care of. Right now, our one job is to protect the baby” he interrupted, getting a word in finally “and yes Chef, I just called it a baby” 

“Hey fella's? I don't think Mikey is okay with you two's fightin'” 

That was an understatement, both of them turning around to see exactly what their friend was talking about: there, huddled in a ball against the trailer was Mikey, his body trembling to the steady stream of tears flowing down his reddened puffed up cheeks, the oversized infants face riddled with such fear he wouldn't allow himself to audibly cry, just lay there, bottom lip clenched between his teeth and breathing so shallowly it didn't sound like he was doing so at all. 

This didn't strike them as something a baby would do, a baby wouldn't care whether it was heard or not, you'd have a closer bet that the child would want to be heard and have it's parent or guardian come to see what the issue was. 

They chocked it up to Trevor's lack of presence, assuming his friend had connected feeling safe to being in the arms of someone who brought anything but safety to the table. 

“How long did T specificate leaving him here?” Chef asked nonchalantly. 

“He didn't” Ron replied. 

The no longer arguing coworkers stood and watched in awe as Wade climbed into the bed, shuffling all about the surface looking for the duffle bag they'd filled with one-quarter of Mikey's supplies, which he luckily uncovered in under two minutes thanks to the god awful pastel pink bag handle poking out from underneath the trucks one blanket. 

He rifled through it momentarily and then retrieved a medium size novelty baby rattle, ironically designed with shittily drawn ponies and ducks that would give any sort of human being nightmares if they looked at it closely. 

“Hey, hey, don't be sad” Wade shook the rattle to get Mikey's attention “Look at this” 

Chef and Ron marvelled at how natural the youngest appeared crossing his knees and throwing the one blanket over them as he put the rattle down, leaning over to weakly pull Mikey into his lap where he got one arm around the manchild's broad shoulders to mimic the way you'd hold a regular baby. 

Gingerly he picked the rattle off the bed and brought it to Mikey's damp face, shaking it to create the sound that broke him out of his shell. 

“You try” Wade insisted, hoping that the toy might sooth him and enable them to get Mikey into the cookhouse. 

Eyes nervously setting on the rattle, Mikey raised a hand to grasp at it, still affected by the ordeal of witnessing his babysitters fight he was evidently hesitant to take the toy, but, Wade's encouraging, kind and sweet stare eased him into completing the task and then giving the rattle a small test shake. 

The tears stopped, Mikey now drawn to the noise admitting from the toy as he moved his arm, the plan had worked and his fear was non-existant, in its wake was strong concentration to make as much sound as possible. 

“How'd he get so good at that?” The question escaped the corner of Chef's mouth. 

“No clue, maybe the porcupine thing with 'is grandfather” Ron guessed. 

“The what with the porcupine?” Chef's eyebrows furrowed. 

“Long story, I'll tell you later” 

“Can't be any weirder than Trevor's experience with the things” The bald man shrugged. 

“That one Christmas-” 

“Don't remind me” The two went off topic as Wade began gently bouncing Mikey in his arms, laughing at his success as an honorary daddy. 

“Look you guys, I did i---” There was a loud crack as Mikey had all of a sudden raised the toy above Wade's head and brought it down hard against his skull, Wade, still in shock at having plastic bits embedded in his scalp, locked eye's with the manchild, his face falling having met a glare that went into close comparison to his employers. 

The deed done, Mikey let out an inhuman wail, so loud it sent the nearby coyote's scattering. 

“SHIT!” Ron and Chef yelled in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a quick update. Today I was in a car accident and a scaffold pole went through the windscreen and crashed into my arm. It's not broken, everything's fine, I only needed to go home in a wrap but it's bruised and swollen and I'm gonna be out of action for longer than expected.   
> I also have a small gash just between my lower and upper forearm, which thankfully didn't require stitches. 
> 
> Kay, that's it. I love you guys and I hope you can forgive me for the delay. 
> 
> I'm on bedrest for the timebeing but the paramedic said my hands in the perfect position to still play video games. 
> 
> Small mercies! 
> 
> Kay Love you, gotta go bye!


	16. Spliffs and Lectures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Ya'll, I'm back from my extended vacay! 
> 
> If you didn't see the updated note from the last chapter then lemme just fill you in: Basically what was supposed to be a two-week break from writing turned into a much longer one because a few Friday's ago I was in a car accident where a scaffold pole came through our Volvo's windscreen on the motorway. 
> 
> I saw it fly off the transport lorry as nothing on the damn thing was tied down and it went straight through the middle of me and my sister's seats, slamming over the armrest. 
> 
> Luckily she just got skimmed, whereas I got the full force of the blow and wound up in A&E for several hours waiting for doctors to show up and nurses to clean the gash on my arm. 
> 
> Thankfully nothing is broken, everyone at the hospital was amazed by that since the images of our car looked like something from a horror movie. 
> 
> my arm hurts, obviously, and it's gonna be very intermittent as to when I can write for the next couple weeks/months since I can't/don't want to take too many painkillers. 
> 
> I'm sorry because this means all of my current work will take a while to be updated, hopefully, small stuff that I can jot out in an hour won't be affected too much because that seems to be the longest time span at which these meds actually work for, any longer and my arm just...wants to drop off. 
> 
> Other than that there have been no big life updates. 
> 
> I have more ideas and i'm happy to share if anybody wants to hear them. 
> 
> Finally, if anyone has requests for fic's that they want, just comment and I'll add them to my list, also it gives me something to do whilst I try not to sing about how the gash on my arm looks like a vagina. 
> 
> It totally does and I've made a song about it and all my friends think I'm weird. Like this is something new! 
> 
> Okay, I'mma go nap, enjoy this tiny piece of a chapter, i wanted it to be like a cutscene and cleanse the reading pallet for when we get back into the main part of the story.   
> If it's not clear, I'm high on meds right now so if things seem a little here and there, I'm sorry, I'll do my best to fix it if it's that terrible. 
> 
> I love all you guys and appreciate you all so very much. Have an amazing day and remember to eat your vegetables. BYE!

“Honestly, Jimmy! This is so the last time I put you in charge of driving my car” Tracey huffed, drinking her Slurpee in a pissed-off manner. 

The fattest of the De Santa siblings leered hunched over the mechanic while he bolted the fourth nut into place of the new tyre, having had to replace the entire wheel itself as the rubber had disintegrated somewhere just coming up to Blaine County, and being out of range of a reasonable cell signal, the young cyber tyrant told himself there was no second option to getting the car repaired and back on the road other than to ride out the journey and find the closest garage, crossing every bone in his body that the damage would be minor and they wouldn't need to shell out on either of their parents credit cards. 

“Aren't you happy it was me stranded with the car instead of you? Mean, what if some creepy dude showed up?” Jimmy shrugged as he reasoned the thought of being less in harm's way than his scantily dressed sister. 

“Just because someone offers you a ride, don't mean you have to accept it, Jimmy” She bickered.

“Since when has that ever happened?” Her brother lectured, matching her glare as Tracey side-eyed him through her frozen beverage. 

Franklin, smartly perched on a stack of crates facing the opposite direction to his girlfriend and future brother in law, numbly inhaled a slow line of the butt of his remaining spliff, mind drifting to another plain of existence. 

Behind him the two manifested another argument out of thin fucking air, the topic being Tracey's over-trusting nature and the number of accounts where she's needlessly put her life in the hands of lustful strangers, be them men or women, all for the sake of a free ride home or to a bustling, celebrity-heavy nightclub pumped to the brim with cheap, suspicious tasting alcohols, eager paparazzi, and porn stars desperate to gain fame by sucking the smallest dick only if it belonged to a millionaire with everything to lose. 

Keeping his thoughts occupied, Franklin looked over to the mechanic, smiling casually as he noticed the work was finished and the poor guy was itching to collect his fee and move back into the garage, away from the sniping twosome. 

“Ey, that was fast, man” He flipped the butt onto the concrete between his sneakers and ground it to fine embers. 

Franklin raised off the crates and flipped out his wallet, he handed the man a stack of bills and gave him an appreciative pat on the back, thanking him for the speedy replacement before walking over to Tracey and Jim. 

“Fucking asshole! Remember who the first born is around here!” The blonde's voice smacked his eardrum like a fucking trombone, loud with the sort of echo that could deafen anyone within a six-foot range. 

“Just tellin' it like it is, Sis” Jimmy cooed, throwing out his arm to catch the car keys Franklin was about to launch his way. 

“Oh yeah! What about you bad mouthing Zuck Markerburg?! He sent hired goons to kidnap you!” Trace complained, crossing her partner's line of sight and snatching the keys out of mid-air. 

“But he didn't! Because I handled it” Her brother grinned triumphantly. 

“DAD CAME TO YOUR RESCUE! YOU WERE HUDDLED IN THE TRUNK CRYING DOWN THE PHONE” The blonde bombshell groaned out of exasperation and stormed to her car, narrowly missing her head as she dived in and slammed the door shut. 

“That's true, dawg. Michael did save yo ass” Frank chimed in. 

“I did handle it! Having my cell with me was handling it!” Jimmy argued, letting his hands dangle at his sides as Tracey stuck her head out the window. 

“Just be happy there was reception, shithead!” Looking at her boyfriend she motioned that Jimmy would be driving with him because someone eligible was needed to drive her car to Sandy Shores. 

“Hey! Why this fool gotta sit with me, can't chu tie him to the roof of somethi--” 

She was gone partway of him finishing his sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ps: I've been working on a headcanon where Michael leaves his wife and moves into one of those nice apartments near the beach, the ones with the little bridges. Comment if you agree/want to discuss this happening and how canon it would be. 
> 
> K bye.


End file.
